


Comfort

by Mottled_System



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Comfort, Comfort Character, Comfort/Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hospitalization, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Kylo Ren is Nice, Mental Anguish, Mental Health Issues, POV Second Person, Past Tense, Self-Harm, Self-Insert, Soft Ben Solo, Stormtrooper, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:47:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28618281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottled_System/pseuds/Mottled_System
Summary: You are hurting, and no one understands that more intimately than Kylo Ren.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 10





	Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to go to an inpatient facility and I just wanted to write a scene about my comfort character, you know, comforting me. I hope someone might be comforted by this, as well.  
> Stay safe <3

The light was too bright, and it let out a quiet, mind-numbing hum that made you want to rip out your own hair, claw off your own skin, scratch out your own eyes. You had had that unyielding urge to slice open your own skin since before you had come here, and this oppressively sterile environment was not helping. You were restless and anxious and angry and sad and horrified and mortified and-

And entirely too much of every bad thing.

You squirmed a bit in the hospital bed, wanting to crawl out of your skin and throw a very physical temper tantrum; to lash out and scream and cry and purge all of these too many bad things from you, these things you could no longer contain. You wanted your pain to pour out of your wrist along with every drop of your blood and leave you empty and calm, if ever numb.

Your supervisor popped into your mind periodically- Captain Phasma. She had been cold and dismissive, as if you were asking to be relieved of duty for a stubbed toe. It had been nearly a week of wrestling with yourself to convince your own angry, stubborn mind that you were ‘bad’ enough to need help, and then another week of wrestling with her. It wasn’t until she had overheard a fellow officer suggest going to her boss, and, if need be, _ his _ boss, that she had pulled you aside to grimly tell you to go.

And then, there you were, staring up at the bane of your existence, trying not to implode in on yourself, alone and afraid.

You were a failure. A broken, incomplete ruin. A caricature of a real, healthy, whole person. You were a conduit for your sadness and a shadow of who you ought to be, who you need to be, and who you could never be.

Mentally ill people are not allowed to be in the army. Mentally ill troopers didn’t exist- they didn’t happen- and if they did, they were immediately removed. You didn’t even know where they went, because every other trooper was smart enough to shut up and deal with it until they were retired, until the Order would begrudgingly take care of their needs.

But you couldn’t do that anymore. You had been doing that for too long. It was this- whatever this was, whatever would happen- or you would take your blaster and put the end of it in your mouth and pull the trigger. And that certainly wasn’t going to help the First Order, now, was it?

There was a muttering- words- sounding outside of your door. At first you could not make the words out- just two men speaking. But, then, it became clear that these unfamiliar voices were discussing you. “-this the stormtrooper.”

“Y/N?”

“Yes.”

There was a pause. They had to be right outside of your doorway now, but thanks to the shape of the room and the placement of your bed, you couldn’t see them. You’d moved it (with much difficulty) and your ‘sitter’, who watched the entire hallway to make sure no one- did anything- had not yet noticed.

After a moment, someone walked in-

Commander Ren. You’d scarcely seen him. You sat up instinctively and went to attention, but he dismissed you with a wave of his hand. “Y/N,” he said, his voice mechanical through his mask.

“Commander Ren,” you said, more shaky than you’d have liked. You forced yourself to relax against your bed, pulling your thin, harsh blanket up a bit to cover your hospital gown.

He flicked his wrist towards the armchair beside your bed. “May I?”

“Ah- y-yes, sir.”

He sat upon it, relaxing. He glanced at the holo screen, but you had had the sitter turn it off. You had never been fond of watching holos. “I understand that you had some difficulty convincing your superior to allow you to admit yourself.”

You tensed, flustered. “No. I- she was just- she was just making sure it was serious enough. As I understand it, admitting oneself is… Rather serious.”

“It is,” he said quietly. “Which is why we have professionals in the medbay to ensure that it is appropriate. It is not Phasma’s job.”

It was not your place to insist that she had not done anything wrong, so you didn’t. You looked down at the foot of the bed and stared in silence. The two of you remained that way for a while, your thoughts eating at you. “This is it, isn’t it?” Your voice was quiet, broken.

“What do you mean?” His voice was- surprisingly gentle. Something you would not have imagined that Kylo Ren could be.

“I mean,” you said. “I won’t be returning to my post, will I?”

“No.”

“I won’t be a stormtrooper anymore.”

“No.”

You made a strange, strangled noise and looked away, then clenched your jaw. You felt, of all things,  _ tears _ prickling your eyes.

“What?”

You shouldn’t speak. But you did. “Only healthy people are allowed to die. At least- for something that matters.”

Kylo Ren was silent for a long moment, but the air changed. You heard a noise and looked over to see him removing his helmet. He set it down on the ground beside his feet.

You had seen his face a handful of times- from a distance, in the cafeteria, when your lunch breaks overlapped. This was very different, and not just because you could see him better. His hair was now even more overgrown, holding even more loose waves. His eyes were dark, his brows thick, his nose hooked and his large lips pouty. He looked at you quietly, his eyes… Gentle. Understanding. Sympathetic, empathetic. As if he saw you and knew you and felt you, every last thing that you were. Your breath caught. His dark eyes said a million things to you that no words ever could, and it comforted you more than anything ever had. You looked down and swallowed, hugging yourself, before relaxing into your bed and sitting in comfortable silence with him.

“You’ll get better,” he said softly. “You always do. And you will matter- just like you always have.”

You close your eyes, squeezing them shut, and let the meaning of his words course through you.

You weren’t suddenly better now. His words did not render this pointless, and they could not return you to your post, to normalcy, to life. But, then and there, they soothed you, and you relaxed under his strangely comforting gaze.


End file.
